how appropriate you fight like a cow

6

So lately I’ve been playing the original two Monkey Island video games and I’m laughing like a hyena nonstop. These are probably the funniest games I’ve ever played, and are filled with so many great bits of dialogue. One of my favorite bits is a tombstone that says this line: 

Marco Largo LaGrande,
Hell on sea or on land
The Good news: He’s dead
The Bad news: He’s bred

And of course there’s the classic Insult Swordfighting, where you defeat your opponents by dishing out sick burns like 

You fight like a dairy farmer!

How appropriate, YOU fight like a cow!

It’s a real shock to me that so many games have terrible writing when these LucasArts games from over 20 years ago are 10,000 times more witty and endearing. 

I also am really enjoying the artwork, particularly in Monkey Island 2. Although the artwork appears in pixel-form in the game (like the image above the paragraph), they actually come from a ton of lovely marker drawing scanned into a computer and translated into pixels. On the top of this post are a ton of great examples. 

The artist of these backgrounds is Peter Chan, who now actually has helped design a ton of movies like Monsters University, The first Harry Potter, Coraline, and The Boxtrolls. He also has worked on Double Fine video games, a studio that is a kind of spiritual successor to LucasArts, the studio that made these Monkey Island games. 

anonymous asked:

Can you do one of the Orlesian Ball headcanon for male Inquisitors? Pretty please? Loved the first one btw

Sorry this was so late in coming! Midterms kicked my ass in the worst way! Sequel to the Lady Quizzies Version:

*AHEM*

Gentleman Inquisitors and the Orlesian Ball.

Inquisitor Trevelyan knowing this game like the back of his hand, smiling at the ladies and nodding at the lords, fighting the urge to scream at the top of his lungs just to break the infuriating lull of this idiotic routine.

Warrior Trevelyan standing awkwardly by the refreshments, fidgeting incessantly and turning down every offer to dance. Josephine frowns at him across the room, silently gesturing for him to dance with someone, but that just makes him go redder in the face. There’s a reason he was going to be stuffed into service at the Chantry somewhere, he is absolute shite at this.

Rogue Trevelyan absolutely owning the room; there isn’t a single lord or lady who isn’t looking at him, although whether they are looks of curiosity, loathing, or admiration is the harder thing to parse. Every snide, passive-aggressive barb against him is met with hearty laughter, although mysteriously those same lords and ladies appear to suffer a small disturbance of the stomach halfway through the evening. “Strange, that.” he chirps innocently, discreetly replacing a tiny crystal vial to the folds of his tunic. “The wine does have a bit of a kick this evening.”

Mage Trevelyan striding into the ballroom in the finest of tunics, looking absolutely resplendent. There is a fire in his eyes that demands respect, and he stands tall and speaks with confidence the whole evening. Later, in the privacy of his chambers, he’s curled in on himself and shaking, his nerves getting the better of him.

Inquisitor Adaar being difficult at his fittings, insisting that he looks ridiculous in the kind of finery they’re trying to force him into. Cassandra snaps at him to stop being such a child; if she can force herself back into a bodice for a night, he can stand wearing a bloody tunic. Adaar grumbles, but stops actively protesting the clothes. In the end, many of the nobles agree, to their surprise, that he looks quite dashing. For a qunari, anyway.

Warrior Adaar standing stock still at the fringes of the festivities, stone-faced, ashen and intimidating. Most of the nobles don’t dare to approach him for any reason. When Josephine pulls him aside to ask why he’s scaring everyone, Adaar blanches and apologizes, saying that he has no idea what he’s doing and is just very, very nervous. Josephine laughs and shakes her head, asking him for a dance to calm his nerves.

Rogue Adaar surprising everyone with his great talent for dancing, but also scandalizing everyone by his choice to dance with Iron Bull. Their over-the-top cavorting causes several injuries to the guests, and a few sovereigns in damages; it ends with Adaar and Bull jumping off of the balcony to escape a very, very angry Madame de Fer. Reportedly, they were laughing their asses off, and were later found at a nearby tavern.

Mage Adaar looking incredibly sharp, speaking with the nobles in soft tones, being irresistibly charming, going against every stereotype associated with his race. Then, when one noble looking for a fight asks how an overgrown cow like him lost his bloody horns, Adaar smiles placidly and says in as mild a tone as you please, “By ramming them up your mother’s ass.” The resulting diplomatic mess is legendary for the fact that Madame Montilyet could not keep a straight face during any of the negotiations done to avoid a public duel.

Inquisitor Lavellan grudgingly attending the festivities, wearing the plainest tunic that Josephine deemed appropriate When he finds out that there are gardens, he immediately goes out for some air, and doesn’t come back for the rest of the evening. When he’s found, he has somehow managed to fall asleep in a lilac tree, and is quite cross when he’s woken up.

Warrior Lavellan refusing to wear shemlen finery, instead opting for armor. It’s obviously Dalish-made, a clear affront to the nobles, but Lavellan glares down anyone who even begins to look down their nose at him. The servants whisper among themselves about the Dalish warrior in the ballroom looking like something out of the tales, and many of them sneak out of the kitchen to catch a glimpse.

Rogue Lavellan smiling courteously at everyone, even if it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, dancing when asked, and overall being quite pleasant company. When a tipsy noblewoman coos at him and paws at his face, complimenting his features and saying that she would pay generously to have a servant as pretty as him, he continues to smile. Only, somehow, in the crowded chaos of weaving through the ballroom, that noblewoman’s dress catches on something. Perhaps a nimble, well-placed foot. And when she is floundering on the ground in her voluminous hoop-skirt, swearing in Orlesian as her feathered headdress slides down her face, if there are a pair of large, bright eyes filled with amusement watching unseen from the crowd, well. That would just be an odd coincidence.

Mage Lavellan is mistaken for one of the servants by a drunk noble couple, and told to fetch them more wine. Lavellan does so happily, and when he hands it to them freezes the whole goblet, liquid and all. If the spell happens to catch every single one of their stupid shem fingers, well. Collateral damage. All the scolding he gets from Josephine and Vivienne is worth it when he sees the elven servants duck their heads to hide their laughter.

Inquisitor Cadash sullenly standing by the refreshments, complaining to Varric about the lack of ale, and generally  being a grump. Varric laughing and wondering how a Cadash could possibly get away with being this uncouth at a social gathering, and Cadash snorting and saying that if he felt that anyone here was worth the effort, he’d be shooting sunshine out of his sodding ass. As it stands, he’s fine with drinking all the wine and being generally useless.

Warrior Cadash being embarrassed about not knowing how to dance, and asking Leliana of all people for help in coaching him. He practices every night afterward in his room. Cole is the only one who knows, and he’s sworn to secrecy. When the time for the ball rolls around, Cadash actually asks a couple nobles to dance with him with little difficulty. They are charmed by his sincerity, and, though he steps on a couple feet, his horrified apologies mollify any annoyance to nonplussed adoration of his bumbling.

Rogue Cadash being an utter scoundrel and not even hesitating to pickpocket every noble he dances with or talks to. Despite this, he still manages to charm the pants off of everyone. In some cases, literally, if his slightly disheveled appearance by the end of the night and a couple lords and ladies shooting him heated looks is anything to go by.